


My Love is the Killing Kind

by Hrunting_License



Series: A Bending, Breaking Wheel [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cousin Incest, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Fingon and Maedhros get married post-Dagor Aglareb, Implied Fëanor/Nolofinwë, M/M, Maitimo's mind is a difficult place, Memory Loss, Non-Linear Narrative, Oral Sex, Parent/Child Incest, Past Child Abuse, Past/Mentioned Fëanor/Maedhros/Maglor, Psychological Trauma, Sibling Incest, Uncle/Nephew Incest, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:48:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28771863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hrunting_License/pseuds/Hrunting_License
Summary: In Angband, in Hithlum, in Himring, Maitimo drifts through memories, and tries to remake himself.
Relationships: Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë/Maedhros | Maitimo, Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Fëanor | Curufinwë/Maedhros | Maitimo, Maedhros | Maitimo/Maglor | Makalaurë, Maedhros | Maitimo/Sauron | Mairon
Series: A Bending, Breaking Wheel [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2103060
Comments: 10
Kudos: 48





	1. Nevermore to Leave Here, You Should Never Be Here

Maitimo knew how to be an object.

A well-crafted object, but an object all the same. He could sing and dance and fight and beg, but it was all for show. It did not touch him.

And somehow, he was going to have to tell Findekáno that, before they married.

The silver ring was heavy around his finger, no matter how finely it was wrought. Himring was cold, at least, so no one would think it strange that he always wore a glove over his hand. Findekáno wore his own, for now. Maitimo wondered, in an odd, detached way, whether he would wear it openly back in Dor-Lómin, where his father might hear about it.

The ring encircled his finger. Metal. Hard. Shackle? No. No, it was Findekáno’s, so it must be right, because Findekáno had asked him so kindly, with no shadow, and how should he say anything that would bring Findekáno pain or sadness, when--

He could do this.

Findekáno was untouched, except where Findekáno touched _him_. Once, Maitimo had thought to save him wholly by creating distance between them, but he had been too weak for that, because once he thought of losing Findekáno’s presence in his life, all he had left was the prospect of enduring, and that held no joy for him.

What would Findekáno need from him? That was the question. What would he need to do, how should he act, to convince Findekáno that he was healed, and that there was no question in his heart? That he should be used in defiance of his desires was no thought worth having. Findekáno was not cruel. There was nothing he could ask that Maitimo had not done, and worse, a thousand times. But what would he want?

“Maitimo?”

Findekáno’s voice. Maitimo looked up, and smiled. They still had two more days before Findekáno had to return home, and he would make the most of it. He could brood upon his future later. “Aye, beloved?” It felt good to say the word again. It made him feel as if he still had feelings, somewhere, or enough echoes of them to keep being alive instead of simply existing.

Findekáno bent to kiss him. Maitimo knew what to do. He leaned up, and met those lips with his own. He reached his hand up, cupping the back of Findekáno’s head, sucking in a breath through his nose, letting it out in a slow sigh. Calculated; the angle of his neck, how much he was breathing, because Findekáno _must_ be happy.

Findekáno looked pleased, almost dizzy when they broke away, so Maitimo must be doing it right. Findekáno was kind. If it took Maitimo a few tries to learn what he liked best, Findekáno wouldn’t mind too much. He didn’t fear punishment--Valar, no, he would have welcomed it--but disappointing Findekáno, letting Findekáno know that Maitimo no longer reacted to anything correctly, that could not be borne.

He knew well how to be a perfect object.

The only question was what Findekáno wanted out of him.

Maitimo was a fast learner. He would find out what Findekáno needed, and give it to him, and then everything would be all right.

***

“You are a slow learner, Nelyafinwë,” Gorthaur said, his voice bitter with disappointment.

“No,” Maitimo ground out, tightening his hands on the metal rings, where he had been told to leave them. He was good at following orders. “You keep changing your mind on what you want from me.”

“I _want_ you to react the way I _tell_ you to.”

The next touch was not that of a whip (he must flinch, when the whip hit, that was what Gorthaur liked). It was the touch of a fingertip, running down his cheek. Maitimo’s mind was cloudy; he tried to think of what to do, how to react. It would not mean anything. He would not tell Gorthaur anything of the forge he knew, and he would not give up anything of his brothers.

Fortunately, he had nothing left to lose.

At least Káno wasn’t there.

The thought was such heady relief that he relaxed, even into Gorthaur’s hand, even with his own hands gripping the iron rings, his limbs splayed apart, his back raw and bleeding, his face pressed against the dungeon wall.

Sharp tendrils of thought like fingernails scraped against his mind. Maitimo endured them. Gorthaur could not touch him there. He had learned that already.

“You could worship me,” Gorthaur suggested, his voice sweet in Maitimo’s ear. “I could be beautiful, and kind, and teach you many things. You would not need to fear being broken.”

The problem was that Gorthaur wanted him to fear, and Maitimo had forgotten how.

He learned his cues. He had catered to the cruel whims of a changeable overlord before.

When Gorthaur wanted to hurt him, that was easy. All he had to do was be hurt. Maitimo liked those days best. He learned how to scream, just enough, and to act as if he hated doing it, just enough to make Gorthaur work harder. If he was damaged, that was no matter. He would never leave Angband. That, he knew.

He curled around a memory, soft and golden, and endured.

Findekáno pushed him into the pool, where the river ran slow and steady and clear, just beneath the mews in the woods near Tirion. Then Findekáno followed him in with a whoop, his braids flying as he leapt. The water closed around them both, warm and clear and clean. Findekáno’s hands were gentle on his own--they dared so little, and Maitimo would never let himself think of more, not while the shadow lingered over him--and Maitimo brought them to his lips, kissing Findekáno’s fingers over and over, his toes brushing against smooth cool rocks below the surface of the pool as Findekáno treaded water, unable to reach. Laurelin’s fruits waxed golden about them, and Findekáno said, “Give me a thousand days like this, Russandol, and I will give you an elf that has lived a full life.”

He had nothing to give. That time was over. But the memory was his own, and inviolable. Even Gorthaur’s cruel fingers could not strip that away from him. Even Maitimo himself could not burn it, as the ships had burned. Findekáno was always alive and kind and laughing and strong in that memory.

Sometimes there were other memories. He let them come. Maitimo had learned long ago not to think of Findekáno’s kindness when someone else was making him feel pleasure, or he would lose the memory, and taint it. He was careful, very careful with his golden memory of the pool. Only when he was being hurt. Only when he was alone. If there was the slightest chance Gorthaur would touch him in another way, he would not think of it.

He had others to retreat to that were not so inviolable.

He banished the memory, _safe_. Gorthaur’s hands slid around his chest.

Findekáno stood on the doorstep of their house in Formenos, cheeks flushed in anger. “Why?” he demanded, when Maitimo tried to send him away. “Why will you not let me in? I saw him heading out to Grandfather’s house, so why not, while he is away?”

_Because you will notice. Because your mind is quick. Because Káno is in my bed, and he has a bruise over his eye, and if you kiss me you will taste my father’s seed._

“It is Exile,” he said instead, through lips that felt raw. “You should be in Tirion, with your father. Didn’t he forbid you to come here?”

Findekáno’s eyes opened wide, his brows drawn together. “You said you wanted me to come, if I could. I could, so I came. You don’t wish to see me?”

Even seeing Findekáno angry at him was a comfort. It was still Findekáno.

Gorthaur’s hands were warm today. His voice was frustrated. “I hope,” he said, an edge in his voice, “that you understand how jealous a master I am. I have taken others in the past who could not feel the intensity of my touch, for they had felt too much already in the time before I had them. Shall I take your memories, as I did theirs? Elves who wander in the darkness suffer so much, without me to guide them. Are you sure you do not suffer needlessly?”

He asked too soon.

If he had asked after the long years hung upon the Thangorodrim, Maitimo would have said yes.

Sometimes his mind found the wrong memory.

After the years in captivity, but before The Mountain, he no longer felt as if his mind was fully under his control. In some ways, it was a relief. In others, it was just one more thing that did not belong to him.

Gorthaur touched his hair.

Maitimo retreated into a memory.

Hands touched his hair. He looked back over his shoulder, and met Macalaurë’s eyes. They were together, at least. He’d called with his mind, weary and ill with the idea of facing his father alone today, and Macalaurë had come with no hesitation, letting himself into the study, his hair half-braided. “You should have waited for me,” he said breathlessly, and walked over to where the two of them were standing, Fëanáro’s hand fisted hard in Maitimo’s hair, pulling his head back at an uncomfortable angle, Fëanáro’s mouth set to Maitimo’s neck. Maitimo wished he were as good an actor as his younger brother.

Fëanáro raised an eyebrow, but released Maitimo’s hair, letting his head come up. Macalaurë stepped forward, and Maitimo looked to his father, hardly daring to hope that this would be a day when he just wanted to watch them.

“Perhaps something different,” Fëanáro mused, and Maitimo forced his hands to stillness, his shoulders to relaxation. “Kanafinwë, have you ever wondered what it would be like to be inside him?”

Relief shot through Maitimo like a drug. _Not too eager,_ he sent his brother, but Macalaurë looked so nervous that wasn’t likely to be too much of an issue.

“You look like you’re enjoying yourself,” Gorthaur murmured. “Good. Where are you, behind your closed eyes?”

Macalaurë’s arms wrapped around him. The kisses were sweeter than they had any right to be. His father liked to see them, he rationalized. And Macalaurë felt more at ease. If Maitimo was careful, and made certain it was a performance, his father might let it be just this.

“He’s too short for the desk,” he murmured, and stroked a hand down Macalaurë’s face. _I’m sorry, Káno, I’m sorry._ “Can we have the chair?”

Fëanáro smirked for a moment, then stood, his hand curled around his own cock, stroking slowly. Maitimo tugged Macalaurë down to sit, then straddled him, tilting his face up for a long, deliberately _noisy_ kiss.

He knew this part. Back--arch. Mouth--open. Chest--forward. Thighs--trembling. Macalaurë’s cock felt sweet inside of him, and for a moment, the temptation to just relax down onto it, slowly grinding down onto that slick length, was so strong he nearly let go.

(When it was just him and his father, sometimes he did. He let himself slide into that strange space in his mind, where the performance felt real, where he wasn’t himself, but just a nameless creature, a slave to his _hröa_ , with his _fëa_ slipping away.)

But his father would grow bored soon, if he was too gentle. Maitimo knew. And he was so tired, and did not _want_ to spend the night at the mercy of his father’s rages. He had made a stupid mistake earlier, had not reacted correctly when his father has insulted his uncle, and had already been struck three times before he’d called, reluctantly, for his brother.

So he did not let himself relax into the pleasure. He tossed his hair, and parted his lips, and started to beg.

“Not too far away,” Gorthaur said sharply. “You aren’t wed, I can tell just by looking. So you’ve played the harlot before, hmm?”

He was thick and hard inside Maitimo. It didn’t matter. When he acted like he wanted Maitimo to enjoy it, he let himself get hard. He was good at that, and got better at it. When Gorthaur wanted him to flinch and beg, he debased himself, letting his eyes glaze over as he was tortured, or touched, or paraded.

The only thing that broke into his mind was when he was led before Morgoth, and the Silmarils winked at him from the Black Lord’s crown. They called to him, to his twisted Oath, and Gorthaur noticed.

“It looks as if you want to be closer. Shall we?”

They were so close. They were within an arm’s length.

The Vala was cruel, and huge, and glittered dark in the shadows beneath the world. The yearning for the jewels overrode everything, made it impossible even to retreat into his memories, the sweet ones or the bitter ones. He felt everything, and screamed.

***

Findekáno kissed him, and nuzzled against his neck. Maitimo turned into that soft gesture, and looped his arm around Findekáno’s waist, tugging him close.

“Maitimo,” Findekáno breathed, and stroked a fingertip down his jawline. “This place is horrible. You know that, right?”

“It’s necessary. Someone has to watch the East.”

“But how am I supposed to watch _you?_ ”

Love tore at Maitimo. That was still there. He still looked at Findekáno, and felt as if something was twisting inside of him. At least there was that.

“Maitimo,” Findekáno said later, sitting on a half-built scaffold, looking out at the fortress of the Thangorodrim, hundreds of miles away. “If you want to wait longer than a year, we can.”

Fear stole up Maitimo’s spine, making his heart thud. What had he done wrong? “I--I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you.” No, no, no--he couldn’t, he _couldn’t_ , he knew better than that, Findekáno didn’t want that, Findekáno would _never_ \--

He’d thought his father would never.

His mother had been so enamored with the baby. He’d been so sweet, so tiny, as if the slightest squeeze from Maitimo might break him. She’d laughed, and leaned against his father’s chest. “Look at them together,” she’d said, content and happy, as Maitimo held his younger brother for the first time. “Be careful with him, Maitimo. It’s your duty to protect him, you know.”

“I will,” Maitimo promised, as the little one, still unnamed, reached up and grabbed a strand of his hair. His heart soared. “Always.”

It was only a handful of days later that his mother had taken the child, now called Macalaurë, to meet her parents. His father had been in a black mood, one of his projects gone wrong, and--

\--And it had been--

\--He’d screamed, he’d pleaded, he’d cried. It hadn’t mattered, because he wasn’t big enough, wasn’t strong enough, and even if he _had_ been--

“So noisy, Nelyo. Ah, but look at this, you’re hard, so you must not hate it. It’s all right. Shh, shh, it’s all right. I know. It feels good, doesn’t it? Soon, you won’t know who you are, when I’m not inside you.”

His father wasn’t exactly wrong. He _didn’t_ know who he was anymore.

He had put his robes back on over the bruises, and when his mother had returned, he had hid at first, not wanting her to see him. He’d watched his father kiss her, and tease the baby, and they seemed so normal, so perhaps it was him that was wrong. Perhaps it was normal, and he was the one reacting wrong. He did not taste his supper, but his father acted as he always had, so he ate, and pretended he was just tired, and not that he did not know how to sit in his chair without feeling a stinging, aching agony.

It hadn’t been often. Over a year between the first time and the second, and the years were so long back then. By then, Macalaurë was singing.

Macalaurë was as tall as his hip, and had asked to sleep in his room, the first time his father mentioned him in a way that made Maitimo’s stomach curdle.

He’d fought.

For whatever reason, he’d _fought_ his father, and thought he could at least slip away and find his mother, if he couldn’t stop it from happening. He’d nearly made it, his hand on the door, when his father had slammed a hand against the door, pinning him there. “You think you know better than I, what use you should be put to?” he’d demanded, so enraged his eyes seemed to glow in the study’s firelight. “Try to run away again, see what happens!”

“I’m sorry,” he’d gasped, when Fëanáro’s fingers closed around his wrist, so hard pain sparked through him, and he writhed, tears spilling from his eyes. “A-Atar, please, it hurts--“

“Stop crying!” There was something strange, almost berserk in Fëanáro’s face, and he grabbed Maitimo, and shook him so hard his teeth rattled, his head knocking against the door. “Stop it! Or next time, it’s your brother I’ll call in here!”

The thought sent such sheer terror down Maitimo’s spine that he froze, his eyes wide, his breath strangled in his throat. “Don’t,” he whispered, and saw something odd flicker in his father’s eyes.

His hands were warm, stroking Maitmo’s hair, tipping up his chin. “I was just trying to frighten you,” Fëanáro assured him, and kissed him, too familiarly, as Maitimo’s stomach twisted as if it were full of worms. “Don’t worry. You’ll always be better than him. This will be just for us.”

 _That isn’t what I meant_ , Maitimo wanted to say, but none of what he wanted to say would do anything but get him hurt.

“Maitimo?”

Findekáno was holding his hand, his thumb stroking over the back of it. He looked concerned. They were sitting in the courtyard of Barad Eithel, and he was wearing his ring. Time re-established itself, and he remembered the last few months all at once, and knew who he was.

As much as he ever did.

“Yes?” he asked, and saw Findekáno’s face clear. He must not have been called too many times, then. Good.

“I’m going to the tailor’s. Did you want to come, or wait here?”

For his robes for the wedding. Because Findekáno was charmingly insisting that they go through with as much of the ceremony as possible, despite the fact that it would be just the two of them, somewhere secret and soft just for them. He wanted it, ached for it. But when Findekáno touched him, sometimes he went somewhere else, so accustomed to finding solace in memory while his body performed what was asked of him. It was good at that.

Sometimes Maitimo thought of dying. If he died with his Oath unfulfilled, would the Valar ever give him a new body? Would he even be able to _go_ to Mandos? If he did have a new body, would it be as hateful as this shell, that had seen so much privation and damage, that knew so well how to be an object?

Still. Still he burned with life, fierce and hot, because there were things he could not leave undone, and there were those he could not leave alone.

Let the Valar keep their uncertain promises.

Maitimo _would_ endure. He _would_ conquer himself. He _would_ make himself again.

The next time Findekáno touched him, a brush of fingertips to the end of his braid, he slammed shut the door on his mind that nearly sucked him in, and stayed behind his eyes. He felt the brush of skin against his cheek, and endured it when Findekáno said, “Maitimo, you’re acting so serious.”

“But I am here,” he answered.


	2. Try and Try to Let You Go, and I'll Just Disappear

“A word, nephew?”

His uncle looked serious. He also looked like Finwë. Maitimo nodded, and followed him into his private study, and deliberately stared at the desk, covered in papers and inkwells and all sorts of small items that had surely never been knocked off of it, because Ñolofinwë’s desk was not a place of horror, any more than his own was in Himring. He stared at it, until he nearly believed it, and could be in the same room as the furniture.

He took a seat when he was bidden. Ñolofinwë did not usually call him aside, nor call him _nephew_ rather than _Lord Maedhros_ or _Lord of Himring_ these days. “Is there aught amiss, Your Majesty?”

“You needn’t call me such, when we’re alone,” Ñolofinwë said, but he still wore the crown, so Maitimo doubted he would modify his speech. “My son tells me you suffer still from waking dreams. But you refused to see our Healers.”

“Yes.” There was no use hiding it.

“Why? We have many that sing away pain, of _fëa_ as well as _hröa_.” Ñolofinwë’s brow was furrowed, as he regarded Maitimo carefully.

“I have heard them sing,” Maitimo said, and if the words were blunt, he could not bring himself to care. “The dreams remain. But I have made my mind up to be master of them. They will fade.”

Ñolofinwë still looked troubled. “We have had many reports, recently, of prisoners escaping, or of being rescued from the slave gangs of Angband. Have you heard of this?”

“We have seen it in Himring for years.”

“And have you heard how the escaped often--“

“I am not turned,” Maitimo said flatly, and saw Ñolofinwë flinch, just the smallest bit. “I know what you would say. I have heard it whispered in my own halls, more and more often over the last several years. That a year is enough to break most elves, and the enemy had me for far longer, and gave me his personal attentions. That the others also seemed glad to be freed, but when they had gathered what knowledge they could, turned and ran back to the dark, for they could no longer bear the light. That those who had been held for five or ten years never even tried to return to Angband when they came home, just turned upon those closest to them and fought until they were slain. This is what you wished to speak to me about, yes?”

“Yes.” Ñolofinwë met his eyes. “That, and one other matter.”

“Then speak.” Maitimo sat still, his jaw set. “And think, as you speak, of what display of loyalty you will require to prove that I am no Shadow’s slave behind my eyes, for you will have it.”

He saw it, then. The dawning nerves. The shame. A part of him was coldly grateful. He had paid this debt in advance, ensuring that Ñolofinwë would always hesitate before examining him too closely.

_Do not fear, Uncle. Despite what you think, it was not so awful to feature in my waking nightmares._

_It was nothing at all, compared to the rest._

Ñolofinwë spoke, and Maitimo felt himself slide into a memory, one he had not thought of for a century or more.

“Maitimo, you look well. Is your father a-home?”

It was something about the look in his uncle’s eyes that made him wary. For Ñolofinwë to come out to Formenos was unnerving enough, but something about this felt different. He looked determined, with his jaw set and his shoulders squared, standing tall on the doorstep. Foresight or just a sense of wrongness prickled at Maitimo, and he smiled, opening the door wide. “He will be in just a moment’s time,” he lied. “Come in, let us have tea.”

He knew the look flickering across his uncle’s face. Uncertain, but lured by normalcy, wanting to be convinced. Maitimo was good at evoking that look on people’s faces.

He made tea for both of them. His father would not be home for an hour at least, but Ñolofinwë did not seem to know he was lying. “I have a favor to ask of you, Uncle.”

“Oh?”

Maitimo’s hands curled around his mug. “You mustn’t let Findekáno come here any longer.” The words hurt him to speak. He had endured pain before. Speaking would not kill him.

“You two have ever been fast in friendship,” Ñolofinwë said, and Maitimo closed his eyes, just for a moment, to remember a thousand days of light, gold and silver and shining, of songs and footraces, of flowers stolen from Yavanna’s woods and kisses stolen from each other, of working together on some puzzle or treatise, of ringing laughter and softer smiles. “What comes between such two now?”

Maitimo spread his hands, as if to say, _what else?_ “Exile will not last forever,” he said simply. “I made my choice. The Valar have always looked favorably upon him. I hope they will always do so, if you keep him from my side until these twelve years are ended.”

Then he would leave, and set up his own house, for the Ambarussa would be of age. No matter how dark the long years were, there would be light at the end of them. He _would_ live until his brothers were all old enough to leave. If he must tell them what had transpired then, he would. For the sake of their innocence, he would endure until then, but he did not owe them a lifetime of servitude. Just a few more years, and he would live free, and unbowed.

 _Could_ he live another few years without Findekáno’s smile? No, he mustn’t falter. The last time--

\--The last time his father had seen Findekáno, the two of them had shouted at each other, and Macalaurë had seen his hands white-knuckled on his thighs, and put himself into the horrible moment. Later, his father had been cruel, and nothing Maitimo did could turn his eye, no matter how he had lowered himself, stripping away what he thought was left of him even in his own mind. Still Macalaurë had collected bruises, and a limp, and had wept in his arms afterwards, when they were safely away.

For him. Because he had not been strong enough to tell Findekáno to go home.

Memories slid, and he was back in the kitchen with Ñolofinwë, cupping his tea. “You must tell him. He does not listen to me.”

“Maitimo...”

So strange, to hear his name coming from an older male voice. His father and grandfather always called him _Nelyafinwë_. “It’s for his sake,” he said bluntly. “You understand what needs to be done, don’t you?”

A frown. Maitimo’s heart beat hard against his ribs. Something was about to happen, something he did not want to happen.

“Maitimo, I have to apologize to you. I had...a few years ago, I had a conversation with your father, and with Kanafinwë, that left me...disturbed.”

Maitimo knew. Macalaurë had come to him white-faced and terrified. _“I said nothing,”_ he’d insisted, and Maitimo tried not to feel a pang of disappointment. The temptation to tell someone was staggering, almost as much as the fear of what would happen if he did. _“Ought I to have?”_

 _“Of course not. You did the right thing,”_ he’d assured his brother, and stroked his hair, and held him until he stopped shaking. “Did you?” he only asked, and sipped his tea.

“I should have asked you, as well, but I did not want to hear the answer,” Ñolofinwë admitted. Already he was more honest than most of the adults Maitimo knew. “Nor force you to lie. I know, you have chosen your position in this regretful altercation.”

“I don’t think there’s anything to ask,” Maitimo said curtly. He knew what was coming, and did not want to hear the disgusting words aloud, not when the speaking would drag so much filth into the light.

“I do.” Ñolofinwë warred with himself for a moment. Then, something steely flashed in his gaze. “It is a condition, of your request that I keep Findekáno at home. You must answer me honestly.”

“All right.” He had often promised honesty, and lied. He was not so good at it as Macalaurë, but when the lie was one someone wanted to believe, it was easier. His mother wanted so badly to believe that his bruises were from roughhousing with his brothers, so she did.

He thought she must. It was her he was protecting, too. The more people he was keeping safe, the easier it was to endure.

“Has your father ever hurt you, Maitimo?”

 _No_ , Maitimo said, in his mind, but something else came out of his mouth unbidden. “What would you do, if I told you he did?”

His eyes widened. He had _not_ meant to speak so, and buried his face in his tea, feeling his heart race. _Stupid, stupid, stupid--what would he do? Your kind favorite uncle? You would get Findekáno’s father killed, for what?_ _Weakness. Cowardice. Valar, how pathetic._

“You are too young to speak so bleakly,” Ñolofinwë said, and set his mug down. “Will you come with me? Come and speak to Manwë and Ulmo, they are wise and just and have ever favored my house.”

“ _Your_ house,” Maitimo said, his tongue heavy in his mouth. “None can say I did not come to Formenos willingly. What redress might I have of the Valar, but to be called fool?”

“And Kanafinwë--“

“He told you true,” Maitimo said, mastering himself from the impulse of weakness. Just a few more years, and it would be over. If he could be strong until then, if he could take it upon himself and endure, they would all be free, and he would break the wheel that bound them. “Father has never hurt us.”

“I said to answer me honestly,” Ñolofinwë said, reproach in his voice. “As you already wish to do, by your face. Come, Maitimo, think you not that what happens to one of you will someday happen to the others? Think of your younger brothers, if not of yourself.”

Fury pulsed hot, and suddenly Maitimo was on his feet, his eyes blazing. “Think of my brothers, if not myself? It is all I have _ever_ done!” he cried, and his hand was a fist, slamming onto the table. “I do not begrudge them, they never asked for it, but...I did not, either. No, I will not court the Valar’s _mercy_ , because I have heard their debates, and I trust not to their judgment! Myself and Káno--we will _not_ be a tool for Nienna and Vairë to kick between them, to make their points of ownership and freedom, to let Great Lord Námo pronounce that no elf’s free will might be overridden, nor any father’s claim to his sons. Do you _know_ what they would do, Uncle? You suspect, and you trust, but you do not _know_ that it is not us they would punish. Admit--you do not.”

“Maitimo...”

“I think you know more of the matter than you pretend, Uncle,” Maitimo said sharply, and saw a flush of guilt on Ñolofinwë’s cheeks, and knew he was right, in some form or another. He knew the look of one caught in that same web that ensnared him, had watched it take his brother. What was it? Had he seen something he should not, and liked it? Had he spied upon something he should not, and wished himself a part of it?

Or had he taken part already?

“What should I do,” he asked, his voice low, unsteady, “if I am taken before the Valar, and my father bids me to tell them true whether I suffer his touch, or whether I come to him willingly? Do not flinch, Uncle; you know of what I speak, I think.”

The tension between them crackled. Would Findekáno hate him, if he knew? Maitimo wondered. Either way, it did not matter. As long as he could keep Findekáno out of the web, it was worth any tangle he got himself into.

Anything.

“Maitimo, you cannot be telling me that you willingly--“

Maitimo dropped to his knees, in front of Ñolofinwë’s chair, and heard his uncle suck in a sudden harsh breath. “Shall I show you?” he asked, hearing the words as if they came from someone else’s lips. Maybe they had. He often did not recognize his own _hröa_ any longer. This one knew how to perform many tasks, but he did not think they were tasks he had ever set out to learn.

Ñolofinwë reached down to push away his hands, but Maitimo was faster, parting his robes, sliding one inside, even as his uncle whispered, “Maitimo, don’t--“

“It’s all right,” he heard himself say, and wondered, in a strange unreality, whether his father ever watched himself as an observer, and was horrified. Had his father been screaming inside his own mind, when he’d first taken Maitimo over his desk? Was that better, or worse? “Look, Uncle--it’s all right, you can see, this is just...something I enjoy. I’ll show you.”

He took Ñolofinwë’s cock into his mouth. Ñolofinwë said, “No,” but his hands were slack on his thighs, and then they were tangling in his hair, and Maitimo thought his uncle was as helpless as he was himself, both of them already caught in this web.

 _It’s all right,_ he thought, and suckled on the head before taking the hard length down his throat. _It is just what happens, around me. Eventually, all things twist._

His uncle’s hands were gentle in his hair. It was like having his brother’s cock in his mouth, though Ñolofinwë was larger than Macalaurë, and stretched his lips in a way that forced heat to rise wearily in his belly.

His uncle’s hand moved. Maitimo flinched, but Ñolofinwë was just brushing the hair out of his face, and looked troubled at the motion. “I won’t hit you,” he said, as if having to say the words made him sad.

Maitimo sucked and licked and did not look at that handsome face. He had a good mouth. He knew, had been told that before. Macalaurë had even shyly mentioned it, once in the baths, before Maitimo had told him harshly that they would not speak like that, would never speak of what they had been forced to enjoy. It would not taint Macalaurë, the way it had tainted him. He would keep it separate, and keep his brother safe, as much as he could.

He brought his hands up, sliding up Ñolofinwë’s thighs, cupping and stroking his balls, and perhaps Anairë did not do this much, or perhaps his uncle was just sensitive, or perhaps time had stolen away from him and he had been sucking cock longer than he realized. Either way, he felt the sudden hot pulse down his throat, and Ñolofinwë’s hands tighten in his hair, and he swallowed dutifully, then pulled off with a wet gasp.

“See?” he asked, and leaned back, licking his lips, letting his eyes sweep down to where he was hard under his robes. “It’s just something I enjoy.”

Guilt shot through Ñolofinwë’s handsome face. Maitimo stood, wiping the corners of his mouth. “Uncle?”

“...Yes?”

“If I ever find out that Findekáno is a part of this, I will kill you.”

He didn’t remember what Ñolofinwë had said. Maybe he had simply pulled his clothes together and run. Either way, he had never returned to the house at Formenos.

Memories slid. He was in his uncle’s office, in Barad Eithel, and his uncle was saying, “...Just wish to ensure that if Fingon is going to be spending some months in Himring, that he will be in safety.”

“I will not hurt him.” The one promise he’d made to himself that he had not broken yet.

Pain flashed in Ñolofinwë’s face. “I didn’t mean _you_ ,” he said quickly. “Just that other lands--Doriath, for example, has taken to turning away any who were held captive, and we have heard that Himring--“

“Has a careful vetting program,” Maitimo said. “If anyone knows what the Shadow looks like when it has taken root in a heart, it is me.”

Ñolofinwë nodded, though he looked troubled. “If you say--“

“Have you thought of how I should prove my loyalty, Uncle?” His voice sounded cold and harsh, though he did not mean it to. “I will do anything you wish. You should know that by now.”

Ñolofinwë paled, and looked down at his desk. “You cannot think I would ask...Even now, you would ask that?”

“I know what happens when a son of Finwë is too long without his wife,” Maitimo said, and deliberately brought his hand up, and flicked at the clasp of his robes. “Who better?”

“No.” To Ñolofinwë’s credit, his voice was strong then, even if Maitimo thought he saw a flicker of some nameless longing in his eyes. “You wear my son’s ring, don’t you?”

“Is that the only thing stopping you from having me over this desk, Uncle?”

“That is enough, Lord Maedhros,” Ñolofinwë snapped, and stood. “If this is how you have taken to adjudicating disputes between realms--“

“Wait,” Maitimo interrupted, and there was fear in his voice. He’d gone too far, knew he had, Angband had made him forget propriety and shame, and that was _so stupid_ , when Ñolofinwë was the only being in the world that had the power to take away the only person he still had that brought him any peace or joy. “Uncle, please, I didn’t mean--don’t be angry--“

Ñolofinwë looked stricken. He made to speak, but Maitimo was trembling, his hand fisted on his thigh, and he wasn’t seeing his uncle’s silver crown, but one with three Silmarils set into it.

“What do you want?” he cried, and for a moment, he felt like himself again, a long-ago person he only half-remembered, who was afraid when things were frightening and flinched when things hurt and laughed when things were delightful. “What can I do? Don’t forbid him, I _won’t_ hurt him, I swear it, there is nothing I will not do--“

“Maitimo,” Ñolofinwë whispered.

“What do you want?” Maitimo asked again, and then he moved, and was on the other side of the desk, gripping at Ñolofinwë’s robes. “Be--be honest, Uncle, you’ve looked at me more than once, since that day. You’re honorable, I know that of you, you’d never--I know you would _never_ hurt him.”

The startled horror in his uncle’s eyes told him as much,It was still good to see. Maitimo kissed the revolted grimace off of his uncle’s mouth. “It’s all right,” he murmured, and if anything, Ñolofinwë felt less like Fëanor and more like Macalaurë in his arms, the way he slowly, almost shyly relaxed into Maitimo’s hold.

“Is that it?” Maitimo breathed, and let his hand wander down, over Ñolofinwë’s chest, through the part of his robes, down to slide around, feeling the corded muscle of his lower back. “I was offering it wrong, I’m sorry, but of course, of _course_ you may have me however you want, you don’t need to ask.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

Maitimo couldn’t tell if Ñolofinwë was talking to him, or to himself. It didn’t matter. He was desperate. He would do anything for Findekáno, and anything to keep feeling as if he were still himself, as if he were still a person instead of a bundle of hyper-vigilant reactions held together by sheer willpower. “I know,” he said, though he did not believe it, and kissed Ñolofinwë more deeply, feeling him moan softly.

The only difficult thing was that he looked like Findekáno. And this was not allowed to _touch_ Findekáno. He would just have to force himself, as he ever had.

It had been years since he had done this, since that last long night after Losgar. His father had been so angry at his treason, standing aside while the ships burned, and he knew how to hurt Maitimo. _“You think I don’t know what you wanted?”_ Fëanáro had demanded, even if Maitimo didn’t know what he was talking about. _“But you followed me, and you are still mine.”_

His least favorite thing, to take Macalaurë roughly, to see his brother flinch from his touch, to know himself just as bad as his father, had been his lot that night. His father had been a part of it, too, until Macalaurë had choked, seed dripping down his blotched face, mingling with tear tracks on his face.

His brother. The one he’d sworn a duty to protect, when he was no more than a child himself.

Ñolofinwë was not weeping. He, too, looked as if he were at war with himself, but the hunger was winning. Maitimo understood. Sometimes it did, when you were still a person.

Ñolofinwë kissed him, and Maitimo tasted loneliness, and anger, and sadness. Maybe by being close to such real emotions, he could remember how to feel them properly. Maitimo clung to them, as his uncle clung to him.

Not the desk. They would do this on the floor, because there were important papers, and no one needed to be held down or bound. That was...

Almost nice.

He’d thought, when he started this, that it would be easy. But only being hurt was easy, after all. It would be so much easier if only his uncle would hold him down by the hair and beat him. This was more difficult, and he had to keep his wits about him. His uncle was murmuring his name, but with a little hitching hesitation, like he had to keep remembering who he was with.

“If you want,” Maitimo murmured, his hand running up and down bare flesh, feeling his uncle’s cock jump in his hand, “you can turn over. You may say whatever you want, let me give you this.”

“You would--to use you thus, it does not--“

“I offer it.” Maitimo closed his eyes for a moment, then said softly, “Please accept it. It is easier for me, to be someone else.”

Their eyes met, for a long minute. At the end, both of them understood, and both were paler than they had been before.

“You--“

Maitimo turned Ñolofinwë facedown, and fisted a hand in his hair. “Shut up,” he whispered. “I know what you want.”

Danger thrummed inside of him. The urge to kill was just the smallest part of it. “Have you oil?”

“Not in my _office_ ,” Ñolofinwë protested, as if normal elves did not have a pot of oil on their desks, in order to rape their sons more conveniently.

Perhaps they didn’t.

“Then--“

“It’s fine, just...give me your hand.”

Ñolofinwë sucked on his fingers, and not like someone who had only dreamed of doing it before. If Maitimo didn’t look too hard, it could almost be Findekáno, so it was all right that arousal fluttered in his chest, and his cock filled faster than it usually did when he was forcing it to.

Maitimo almost pressed a kiss to the back of his shoulder. But this was not Macalaurë, who wanted to be soothed and comforted. This was Ñolofinwë, who wanted--

He bit down at the juncture of neck and shoulder. He had a small scar himself from a bite like that, though now it was hard to see, just part of the map of scars that criss-crossed his body. Ñolofinwë groaned, and Maitimo pulled his fingers out of his mouth, moving his hand down. “It’s been too long since someone made use of you properly, hasn’t it?” he breathed, and it was easy, too easy, to remember his father’s too-quick, hungry way of speaking when he was like this. He paused, then asked, as he slid a finger into his uncle’s tight hole, “What should I call you, when you’re being so sweet for me?”

“Nolvo,” his uncle whispered, resting his forehead against the floor of his office.

He couldn’t blame his uncle. Not for any of it.

Everyone around him grew twisted eventually.

He pushed in another finger, and heard a soft, eager grunt from beneath him. “That’s it, Nolvo,” he murmured, and the words came easily, too easily. “You’ve wanted this so long, I’ve seen you looking at me. Don’t worry. I know what you need.”

He didn’t even have to think. He’d heard the words too many times for that.

Just then, the door opened. Maitimo froze, and felt Ñolofinwë do the same, both of them not moving at all, hearts pounding. The desk was large and went down to the floor, so Maitimo couldn’t see the door. He could, however, hear the voice that called, “Father? Malon said you were in here...”

_Findekáno._

For the first time in decades, Maitimo thought he might be reacting to something the way a normal person might. Time slowed to a crawl. The sheer horror that took over him made him sick, dizzy. He didn’t dare breathe, and couldn’t hear Ñolofinwë breathing either. A moment or an eternity later, the door closed again, and Maitimo exhaled slowly.

He pulled his fingers free. He could not look at his uncle. Slowly, he fastened his robes again, and stood. Fear pulsed through him, and disgust, and if there had been a chasm nearby, he would have thrown himself into it.

“I’m sorry,” he said hollowly. “This was all my fault.” A hitching, strange laugh wheezed from his chest. “So, you were right, you see. But it wasn’t Angband that did this to me, Uncle.”

There was a rustling sound from behind him. Maitimo tensed, and felt his eyes stinging hot. For a moment, he had the childish, _stupid_ fear that he was about to be hit.

As if flinching would help.

As if being afraid would stop it from happening.

It had never served him well to be afraid before.

Then suddenly, Ñolofinwë’s arms were around him from behind, in a fierce hug. “I’m sorry,” Ñolofinwë said gruffly. “I’m sorry. I knew better. I shouldn’t have.”

Maitimo’s heart thundered, waiting for the pain, but it didn’t come. Ñolofinwë released him, and he turned.

Ñolofinwë’s face was creased with grief and shame. He shook his head, and dragged a hand down his face. “You should go.”

Maitimo nodded, the blood pulsing dully in his ears. “I’ll go.”

“Maitimo.”

Maitimo paused.

“You...” Ñolofinwë shook his head. “I won’t forbid anything, to anyone. But if you’ll listen to the advice of someone that cares for you...do not wed him if you aren’t ready to tell him.”

“I can’t tell him.” That was a hard truth.

Ñolofinwë sighed. “Do you really think you can hide it from him? When you’re joined with him?”

“I’ll tell him it’s because of Angband,” Maitimo said, shrugging. “That was always the plan.”

“Maitimo. Tell him.”

“I can’t.”

Ñolofinwë took his hand. Maitimo didn’t flinch, but it was a near thing. “I’ve been married. You can’t hide this from someone you’re wed to.”

“My father did.” Maitimo’s face was blank, his voice cold. “My mother wouldn’t have stood for it.”

“Is that the sort of marriage you want to have?” Ñolofinwë demanded. “Why did you even agree to marry him, if you didn’t want to enter into a true bond?”

“Because he wants to,” Maitimo said softly, and turned to the door. “And I would deny him nothing. If he wants whatever is left of me, he is welcome to it. I just have to learn what he wants of me. Don’t worry, Uncle. I won’t hurt him.”

“That isn’t what I’m worried about.”

But Ñolofinwë didn’t stop him when he left.

***

Findekáno held his hand, brimming with happiness. Despite everything, Maitimo felt his heart warm at the look on his face.

He didn’t mean to.

He meant to stick to the plan. When Findekáno would touch him, he would react, and if Findekáno acted like that was right, he would keep doing that. If Findekáno acted like what he did was strange, he would say it was Angband, and the next time, he would do better.

Then suddenly it was as it had been in the house at Formenos, when his mind had said, _My father has never hurt me,_ and his mouth said something entirely different.

The band on his finger was gold, now. Maybe that was what was different. It was as if he could not lie, not to Findekáno. Not now. Even though he tried.

“Well,” Findekáno asked, a little bit gleeful as they retreated into his chambers in Dor-Lómin, the doors locked and bolted against any comers. “What would you like to do first?”

 _I would like you to have me however you like,_ he meant to say, and said instead, “We shouldn’t join, Finno. You mustn’t see what’s in my mind.”

He expected to see dismay or sadness on Findekáno’s face. Instead, Findekáno just sighed, and pushed at his chest, until he fell back onto the bed. “You think I will see something that I cannot handle.”

“I--yes.”

Findekáno climbed onto the bed after him, and kissed him, hard and intent. “You think me so innocent, Maitimo?”

“Yes.” The word was a whisper. “Of some things, yes.”

“I. Who took you from the Thangorodrim.”

“Yes.”

Findekáno took his face in his hands, and looked into his eyes very seriously. “You have no idea how much you told me in the months after that, do you?”

Maitimo tried to remember. That time was little more than still images, and each one shivered apart when he tried to look at it. “No,” he admitted.

“You told me much.” Findekáno kissed him, slow and soft, and his grey eyes were serious. “But whenever I tried to speak to you of it, you pushed me away. Will you stop?”

“I...I told you of Angband?” Maitimo asked, blinking. “And Gorthaur?”

“And more.” Findekáno sat back, straddling his thighs, though the motion was anything but erotic. “You truly don’t remember? Telling me of your father, and Macalaurë?”

Maitimo felt as if he was drifting, except that Findekáno was still sitting on his legs, holding him grounded. “You really...know?” It didn’t make sense. He could know, and still be here, and still want this?

“You told me,” Findekáno said, and lay a hand on Maitimo’s chest, right over his heart. “Of the marring that darkened your house, after the Unchaining, and came for you, and...and ruined everything, and made you afraid. You were begging my forgiveness for sending me away, do you remember?”

Dimly, slowly, Maitimo did. He started to slide into the memory, but Findekáno’s hand was on his chest, and for the first time in a long time, he simply _remembered_ instead of leaving his mind. He remembered thinking Findekáno was sent by Gorthaur’s minions, and being exhausted, and thinking all was an illusion. He remembered the first time he thought it might, truly, be real, and the fear that took him, because it might be taken away at any moment. He remembered when they had blown out all the candles, and Findekáno had lain beside him in the darkness. He remembered feeling the weight of the words in his stomach, and whispering that Findekáno must get out, for he _had_ to speak aloud or let them poison him forever. He remembered feeling near-violent in his panic, and pushing at Findekáno, and trying to force him out, and how Findekáno had held him fast, until his breathing had finally evened out, and the poisoned words had begun to drip from his mouth. He remembered saying them, finally--of _rape_ and _hurt_ and _too young_ and _father_ , of _what I was forced to do_ and _Macalaurë, who never deserved any of it_ , of _couldn’t tell you, too afraid_ and of _please don’t hate me, Finno, but please don’t think I am well, either._

He remembered Findekáno’s tears--for him.

He remembered thinking suddenly that he was not allowed to have this, not allowed to have such a kind and generous memory, because Gorthaur would come to take it from him, because he could not keep it safe, because his mind was not safe, and locking it away, so he would not be tempted to draw upon its sheer relief and gentle comfort in moments of torment.

“I...remember,” he said, his voice rough, his eyes stinging. “Oh--oh, _Valar_ , I remember. And you...did not leave.”

“I will graciously recall that you were in agony from your wounds at the time, or you would have never suspected that of me,” Findekáno said, and there was a serious edge in the words. “You told me, as was right. And you told me of your hope for a time after, when you and I could set up our house in Tirion. The hope that burns in you warms me, Maitimo. It ever has.”

Maitimo did not think he deserved Findekáno’s shining light in his life. But it was the only thing keeping the darkness away, so he grasped at it, laying his hand against Findekáno’s thigh, so that he might take that light into himself, and become something more than an object again. “Oh,” he said, when he could not think of anything else, and felt himself smiling, because something was delightful.

“Wait. You weren’t going to tell me?” Findekáno folded his arms over his chest. They were not as slender as they once were, hard with muscle from years of practice with bow and blade, criss-crossed with the fine lines of faded scars. “You stood up in front of my father and _married_ me, and you weren’t going to tell me about something that important?”

“But--you said I _did_ tell you?”

“But you didn’t know that!” Findekáno grinned, as if the sun had come out from behind the clouds. “Anything else you want to confess, before we do this?”

“No.” Maitimo thought for a moment, then admitted, “I kissed your father.”

Findekáno’s face twisted in sudden disgust. “Ew! Why?”

“Er--“ Maitimo considered telling him. Then he caught Findekáno’s eyes, and his gaze softened. He inhaled slowly, then nodded. “Come into my mind, and find it for yourself...if you will promise to stop, if it becomes too dark.”

“I am good at dark places.” Findekáno kissed him firmly, then reached to the side, and snuffed out the candle.


End file.
